The One Who Counts
by SomeoneNew86
Summary: A brief one-shot of the Sherlock's thoughts as he is trying to figure out a way to defeat Moriarty.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

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He was at a complete and total loss. They were failing him; logic and reason the two steadfast, constant companions that had been his faithful friends for years were letting him down. No, they hadn't abandoned him. Rather than guiding him this time though their indifferent eyes stared down at him while they remained silent. He could not even sense either of them reaching out a hand to help. His mind was filled with cold and dark and he was losing time. Where to turn? A nagging in the back of his mind was urging him that he did know but his pride, as callous and unforgiving as reason and logic, was standing in the way as well.

"No, no, no!" He yelled clenching his pale hands into fists and swinging at a stack of books on his table. They fell and he fell along with them. As he collapsed onto the floor he grabbed handfuls of hair and let out a guttural cry of frustration. He couldn't defeat Moriarty this way…the theories, the solutions; none of them seemed to work. He felt useless, people would die and the "great" Sherlock was piled in a heap on the floor with dusty old books and did not have any genius ideas to save anyone. The nagging voice was growing stronger telling him what he did not want to hear, not now or ever. His feeling of near invincibility had started to crumble when his mind grasped the devious reach of Moriarty's web. No one, not even Watson could comprehend how far the mad man was going to go to hurt and destroy others. While a great many mysteries remained in the dark for parts of Moriarty's web there was one thing Sherlock could see crystal clear; himself at the center of the web. Trapped and awaiting devouring Sherlock would watch those he cared for taken down with ease and slowly the spider would circle, bringing misery to Sherlock not from the knowledge of impending death but rather a slow and methodical deconstruction of everything he had relied and prided himself upon. It would be turned to a pile of ashes and Sherlock would be dead even before his heart stopped beating. The nagging thought was starting to become more commanding; demanding that Sherlock listen this time. Closing his eyes he leaned back wearily against the bookshelf. Once again he retreated to his thoughts hoping for the answer that had not yet come.

He did not hear Watson come in and quietly approach him.

"Sherlock," said Watson quietly but with a heavy undertone of concern.

Sherlock's lucid blue eyes met Watson's concerned gaze and he saw the worry on Watson's face but he also saw the strength and determination in his eyes. Watson did not have the solution to Moriarty either but he hadn't started showing signs of defeat. The lack of sleep showed on his face but his gaze was unwavering. Watson cared for him yet it had not turned him into a simpering fool. As he looked up he noticed what he hadn't before; rather than his sluggish-minded companion who seemed to look out a bit too much for the well-being of others was the steely resolve of a weathered soldier. Watson had cared for people and it hadn't stopped him from excelling at being an army doctor and accomplishing his job. Sherlock considered these things as he took Watson's outstretched hand offering to help him up.

Holmes had always loved the game; thrived on it. Each puzzling case with peculiar crimes or murders put to use the always spinning gears that never seemed to rest in his brilliant mind. His intentions were often questioned by others who he scarcely paid any attention to. At times he himself was given cause to believe he was an almost-emotionless machine as well and it made no difference to him as long as he could crack the case. Only once had his psyche truly been disturbed and existing beliefs in his methodology questioned. It was during the visit to the military compound in Baskerville. Before discovering the true source of the monstrous hound as being created by a drug induced illusion he had wondered how it was possible for such a creature to exist and his mind could provide no answer. The true terror the experience incited was not from the hound itself but the lack of explanation for it. The terror had been short lived though and faith in his intellect restored.

Moriarty was drawing a line of distinction between the two of them; they both loved the game but Sherlock had always _just _followed it. Moriarty's boredom motivated him to create chaos whereas Sherlock sought to return the world to calm. As much as calm drove him mad; he chose it over hurting others for the sake of mental exercise.

He could feel the air thick with wrong and he knew without a doubt his wits alone would not pull him through this. He was not in a game this time, he was in a nightmare. And for such things as nightmares what do you rely on? Upon taking Watson's hand he realized it was more a matter of _who _do you rely on than _what._

The nagging voice had won and Sherlock gave himself over to listening to it; he thought of all the places he could turn, people he could receive help would not rely too heavily upon Watson for aid; he was as close to the fire as Sherlock was and would burn if he went any further. Mycroft was too high profile to make any fast maneuvers and far too like Sherlock himself to offer the assistance needed in this. Lestrade would have been an apt choice had it not been for the pressure he was under to arrest Sherlock. Ms. Hudson was far too inexperienced with crimes as these to offer help without being destroyed in the process; her heart would be involved but she would be the easiest target of all. His mind filed through all the possibilities then the next thing to cross his mind was the pale, timid face of Molly Hooper. He had inwardly and outwardly expressed disgust and disdain for her frailty day in and out of their work at the lab. He thought she was as mousy and insipid as a human being could ever be and her unrequited adoration of him made him sick. That was through the filter of his logic though; in these moments of desperation he saw what his haughtiness would have never allowed him to see. Molly was stronger than he had ever thought; despite the criticism he often gave her she had managed to remain focused on her work. He'd seen her wince time after time from his jabs or harsh replies yet those delicate emotions that seemed to tremble on her lip never stopped her from completing her job. She may have been wounded but her hands never shook; she may have cried later but at the lab she never faltered. How could one so fragile manage that? And then he was forced to see; she wasn't as weak as he'd always thought. He momentarily thought of Irene and how clever she was; yet by nature she was equipped with the wit and mind to rival his own. Molly, despite being out of her depth and hardly favored by him had managed to put up with him this whole time. She had never allowed herself to react rashly or alter her own personality to cope with his. In contrast he thought of Sally Donovan who pounced on any chance she had to belittle him or insult him. She was practically beside herself when everyone in Lestrade's office learned of his lack of elementary knowledge of the solar system. Molly remained Molly even on Sherlock's worst of days and right now the startling clarity of the information before him could not be ignored. Sherlock needed the one who would count the most and her name was Molly Hooper.


End file.
